


Four Horsemen

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Devil's Carnival (2012)
Genre: Cocktail Fic Challenge, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We have been summoned,” it said, and its voice was like someone pulling a sword from a scabbard, and also like someone loading a gun. “We were told that the High Lord has a need for us.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Horsemen

Truth be told, there really isn’t that much to do in Hell. When there aren’t souls around to torment, many of the denizens tend to just… sit around, not doing much of anything.

Hell really was an odd place – after all, there are millions, if not billions of people who die believing that they’ve been bad, in one way or another. Even discounting the ones who don’t believe in Hell in the classical sense – that is to say, the one with the horned man and fire, that was still a great deal of people.

And yet, after the three participants had been tormented, there was nobody around to do much of anything with. So the carnies indulged in what they seemed to be doing more and more of lately – nothing. They played cards, or practiced for their acts, or a billion other little things that are done when there is nothing else to do. It’s a special kind of boredom that inhabits hell, the kind of boredom that may be part of the torment in and of itself. The carnies themselves (those who could think and ponder beyond their own basic acts) weren’t all entirely sure if they had always been here, or if they had, once upon a time, come wandering into the carnival, blinking at the flashing lights.

The Painted Doll and the Scorpion were drinking, because as already mentioned, there wasn’t much else to do. Where did the alcohol come from? Nobody knew. That was a bit like the way of Hell – if something was needed, it came. Not in the condition it was needed in, of course, because this was Hell, but it was there. Where did the Magician know how to make all of the strange concoctions he was so fond of? That was another question for the ages that not even the Magician could answer. Admittedly, the Magician tended to be so loopy that even if one did ask, it wouldn’t make much in the way of sense.

Neither the Painted Doll nor the Scorpion was much in the way of conversationalists. She sang when the right strings were pulled (metaphorical or otherwise), but otherwise, she was silent. The Scorpion… wasn’t much for conversation, if it strayed from how amazing he was, or how much he enjoyed knives. The two of them complemented each other in that way – most of the carnies were unnerved by the Doll’s silence, and the Doll was one of the only carnies who could actually put up with the Scorpion’s inane rambling.

The Scorpion was quiet, for once, sitting by his wheel (that girl was still tied to it, eyes staring wide, the green of her dress contrasting with the brightness of the wheel), watching people pass by. The Painted Doll had come over, in that swaying sashaying way of hers, not too long ago, and he entertained the thought of fucking her, before dismissing it. That took effort, more effort than anyone was willing to put out. That was the fun thing about having new souls around to torment – they infused the place with energy, whereas otherwise it felt as still and stagnant as a puddle.

The drink was strong, and it made the Scorpion’s eyes water. He watched the Doll as she sipped hers, watching to see if it had the same effect. Of course it didn’t. She never seemed to feel much of anything, even to the extent of the carnies own limits. She sat there demurely (she was good at playing demure, at least), sipping her drink and just… staring of, at nothing. The Scorpion assumed it was nothing, until he heard the hoof beats.

There were four of them, all mounted on horses, which was odd. They looked old, in a way that nothing else in the carnival did. They looked almost as old as the Boss himself, although the reasons for their apparent aged appearance were impossible to describe. Something with the way they moved, the way their eyes stared out. One of them was wearing armor, like something that belonged in a museum, and the eyes that stared out from under the brim of the helmet were red.

“We have been summoned,” it said, and its voice was like someone pulling a sword from a scabbard, and also like someone loading a gun. “We were told that the High Lord has a need for us.”

The Scorpion sipped his drink, looking over the others on their own horses. There was the man carrying scales, and the other man, wearing some kind of crown, and the last one… well, the Scorpion knew him, from one interaction or another. He found himself pressing a bit closer to the Painted Doll, actually grabbing her hand. She looked at him coolly.

“Why?” The Scorpion swallowed, and his throat clicked.

“Because there will be a need for us,” said the one with the sword, and it turned its horse away, the hooves leaving dents in the dirt of the ring.

The Scorpion shivered again, and looked at the Painted Doll, scared in a way that he hadn’t ever been before.


End file.
